Don't Forget The Awkwardness
by vedrri
Summary: "Oh, look, dinner is served." Mock-serious. "So, go on, spill it."


_I wasn't sure about the rating. Let me know if it's wrong?_

* * *

How did I not see this before?

My feet hit the pavement far more forcefully than is strictly necessary. I tangle fingers in my hair and pull. Hard. It doesn't help. I still feel like an idiot! I still think about my feelings, like an idiot. People are disturbed by my behavior; I notice them staring at me and my murmurs. I'm not sure what exactly I'm saying, but it's probably something along the lines of _Idiot__!_ and _Why __doesn__'__t __he __say __something__? __I __must __do __everything __myself__!_ I don't know why I'm angry at him. He did nothing wrong. I'm just comfortable blaming everything on him.

Opening the door is a bit of a struggle. I keep pushing the wrong key in the keyhole. The problem is quickly resolved once I notice that I'm still standing outside, and not sprawled across the sofa with John nearby, as I thought. The right key is found. I stomp up the steps. I cannot believe I convinced myself that John was in the morgue with me. Maybe I thought about him too much. Or just enough. Either way, I spent nearly half an hour talking to the dark matter, empty space where John should have been. Why didn't I take him with me? No, wait! He refused to go.

Good thing Molly didn't hear me mention John's name when she walked in. Had she walked in two minutes earlier... I slam the door. But she hadn't. No need to fret about it. So damn close. Oh, John's in the kitchen. What has he got to sigh about? The dinner smells fine, nothing is burnt. The scarf goes into the right pocket, the coat on the hanger. It takes me another ten seconds to realise that the string of _Idiot__! __Moron__! __How __did __you __miss __it__? _may not be exactly appropriate.

John continues to move around the kitchen and then in the direction of the living room. I panic for a second. I am sure that every emotion is visible on my face. Although, I'm not sure what exactly it is that I'm feeling. John would know, so he's not seeing my face. Not if I can help it. And I can help it. A sulk would help it. John never bothers me much when I'm sulking. I throw myself on the sofa and John reaches the door. He leans on the doorway, so relaxed.

"Hello. Tea?"

I'm still wearing my shoes. That just won't do. It's not a proper sulk if I'm still wearing shoes. Or a suit, but that can't be helped. Shoes on the other hand can. I tug at the end of my shoe laces. They are easily toed off after that. I don't have to try hard to sound preoccupied. Who would have thought that keeping the words inside would be so hard?

"Yes, yes, fine."

I can feel him worry. Not seeing the frown, however, makes it possible for me to pretend he isn't, that I'm wrong. Maybe he's smiling affectionately. I would like that. John has a nice smile.

"Alright?" he asks.

* * *

"Fantastic."

You don't even bother looking at me. What you bother with is a sarcastic response and removing your socks. Somehow this makes it easier to worry. I know you're having a sulk and it's probably nothing, but you not taking care of yourself is an excuse to worry, an excuse to take a blanket and to tuck you in. Then you can sulk all you want and I could revel in being close to you for a moment.

"Don't you have things to eat? Tea to make?" But clearly, you don't want me here, if a cruel voice is anything to go by. I can take a hint. This isn't exactly a rare occurrence.

"Right," I allow. A bit puzzled by what brought on this round of sulking, I retreat into the kitchen. The macaroni are nearly done. They need just a few moments longer. I'm sure I haven't done or said anything completely idiotic in the last few days. I haven't said much at all. In fact... I barely have an idea when I last saw you, Sherlock. Maybe yesterday. Or the day before. Was it really that long?

I add cream to the sauce and then dig out a list from the left back pocket. I have it memorised by now. I could probably recite it if someone woke me up in the middle of the night. I hope I don't talk while dreaming. Nobody said anything yet, but not many even had the chance to find that out. Imagine though, if I said those things, you were bound to find out. And the list prevails on _Do __Not __Mention __Under __Any __Circumstances_ or _Against __the __Confession_, which includes points such as: _he __stated __he __is __married __to __his __work__, __he __despises __any __kind __of __sentiment__, __he __would __refuse__, __I __refuse __to __have __my __heart __broken__, __this __would __ruin __our __friendship__, __living __is __harder __without __him_. The reasoning was much more convincing than in the _Happily __Ever __After_ or _For __the __Confession_, which consists of _I __love __him_ and _pretending __is __bloody __hard_.

All this amounts to: Watson, keep your bloody mouth shut. So far I haven't said anything even remotely incriminating. I think so, at least. There are sounds from the living room, you're on the move. So I shove the list back into my back pocket. It frayed on the fold, just another three or four times of unfolding and rough shoving.

I don't remember making the tea. Oh, well. The important bit is that it's done. You sit on your usual chair and I put a cup of hot tea in front of you. You tug the corners of your lips up in the acknowledgement of my efforts. Sometimes I don't get even that. I drink from my own cup, just so I have something else to do beside stirring.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" I put the mug down and turn the heat off.

"I..." The strainer is already in place, so I just pour out the macaroni. The hiss of the steam nearly obliterates your next words. "I'm sorry."

* * *

"For what exactly?"

John catches me off my guard. I figured that I misbehave often enough that he wouldn't need the specifics. There is always something. Sometimes there are frozen heads, severed fingers or internal organs, human or otherwise.

I slowly drink my tea, preparing myself for what is to be a hard conversation. And so I have a revelation: I realise what to say.

"It's an advance apology", I say quietly, but the next bit comes out harsh, infused with certainty. "I'm sure it will be needed."

What am I certain of? I am certain that this will be hard, that I will get hurt, that I will hurt John, which is the last thing I would ever do if I can help it. I am so afraid and I take pride in _not _being afraid of anything, not even dying. This isn't more important than breathing, but it feels so. I take another mouthful of tea. It does wonders to calm one down.

"Oh?" John reaches for his cup, but it's empty, so he sets it down again. He takes his time, stirs the sauce for a bit, then turns off the heat. I wait until he turns around, which he does a few seconds later.

"Yes. I want to ask you something." I avert my gaze. Why did I wait for him to turn? I fiddle with my cup, nearly empty, maybe a small mouthful left. "Would you..."

_Would __you __go __out __on __a __date __with __me__?_

How hard can it be? It's simple enough. I know John said it often enough, even in the rather short time we have been flatmates. The problem may be that I have never actually said it to anyone. I have usually been the one that the words were being said to.

"Would you make me another cup of tea?" I ask. I can't do it. Why is this so hard? "You clearly need another one as well." I sneak a glance at John, who is watching me with amusement.

"That's not it."

"Yes, it is." I don't give myself time to think, so I mess up. I try not to give away that I'm inwardly cursing myself. John sees it and smiles.

"You see?" I see. "That's not it." He moves around the kitchen and sets the table. These are our last unbroken, or otherwise ruined, plates. John already put food on them. "Tell me all about it over dinner."

John sits down, while I stare at the bits of chicken and macaroni. A sharp intake of breath startles me. I look up to find John wide-eyed and serious.

"Oh, look, dinner is served." Mock-serious. "So, go on, spill it." He smiles and adds. "And _eat _your food." Then goes on and demonstrates the concept of eating.

* * *

I'm a bit surprised to see you following my lead and actually eating some proper food, but then I realise this may not the be the best thing for this conversation, strange as it is.

"I've noticed some things, John," you say. I have no idea where you're going with that. You, Sherlock Holmes, always notice things, which is not a problem in itself. The problem is that you always have to show off. You say too much of the wrong things and not enough of the right. So I play your game because that's what you want.

"Oh? Like what?" I play with my food. Every now and then a bit finds its way to my mouth. It seems like you and I have reversed roles. You're usually the one to play with your food, and now you're trying to eat as fast as you can. Delaying the inevitable if you ask me.

"The way you look at me after we chase criminals across London." You don't look at me. Seems a bit uncomfortable. "The way your pupils widen when I forget to put on proper clothes. And then, there's the way..."

That is quite enough, thank you. I can see where this is going. Although, I have no idea why you felt the need to point it out to me.

"Let me help you: I _like _you." I try not to reveal too much. It isn't that I just like you, I love you. It's impossible to keep secrets around you, Sherlock, so I don't try. But you're terrible with sentiment, as you call it, and I can get away with the depth of the feeling.

"Exactly!" What? What do you mean _exactly_? I raise my eyebrow in question.

"Does this have a point?" I feel blank. It probably shows. I don't know where this is going and I'm not entirely comfortable with it, but you are always going to do what you want. I can only follow or leave. Leaving is not an option.

"A point?" You look confused. "I believe it does."

"Believe?" The words have to be helped. I help.

"Alright, I know it has a point. I just have trouble getting to it." It feels good to know I was right. You wouldn't circle the subject if you just wanted to get rid of me. This is much deeper.

"Well, you're on your own, mate." There's nothing more I can do, so I eat.

"What? Why?" Of course you would have a problem with that.

* * *

I _know _he can tell how I feel, so why does he refuse to help me? John always helps me.

"Sherlock, I can't read minds."

I snort. I'm hurt and he doesn't want to help me. He always wants to help me. And now I'm repeating myself. Idiot!

"Oh, you know what I mean," he says.

"No, I don't." If only I could get him to fight me, if only I could stop him from saying those things. Why should I be on my own in this? I don't want to be. "What does 'to read minds' mean? How can-"

"Sherlock, shut up!" I shut up. John isn't going to fight me. He is in that mood when whatever I say, it's just going to bounce right off him. He's going to get his way. He isn't going to listen and he'll leave. What if he never returns? He takes a deep breath.

"I _need _you to say whatever it is." Oh, John, why? "I could say it for you, of course I could." Do it, John, please. "But I'm not going to. _You _need to say it. For both of our sakes."

"Are you sure, John, that it's supposed to go that way?" I ask. It would be so much easier if he would just say it for me. He makes things easier, not harder. A reversal. That's what this is.

John looks sad, defeated maybe. He doesn't believe I'll be able to say it. I don't believe I'll be able to say it. I should say it. For both of us, just like he said. I can't. I envy John. He has courage. He runs into danger. He doesn't knows what he's getting into, but he knows how to get himself out. He knows how to get me out.

* * *

"Yes, I am. Now eat your food."

I don't know what will happen next. I wish you didn't say anything at all. You're just complicating things. Or maybe simplifying them. I think I know what you want to say. Suddenly I don't feel as confident as I did minutes ago when I said I could, but wouldn't speak for you. What if I'm wrong? What if I say the wrong thing and ruin all of this? I couldn't live with that, I've known this for a while.

If you don't say anything now, we could go on pretending this conversation never happened. It might be easier.

I eat in silence. Not complete silence. You left the window in the sitting room open. I don't know when you did that, but I didn't do it. A simple deduction. I hear cars driving in the street below. It started to rain, what a surprise. I notice I have eaten everything only after there is nothing left to pierce in the most unaggressive manner possible.

I get up and put the plate in the sink. I don't even think about washing it. I can do it in the morning. It would be nice to have a shower and just go to bed. In the morning, we'll both pretend nothing happened because nothing actually did. We just started talking and never finished. It even sounds better than _we __just __started __talking__, __but __I __wasn__'__t __there __for __the __most __part __of __the __conversation__._

I turn and you're standing barely four inches away. Just enough so you can reach around me and drop your plate. I wait for you to move, but you don't. You're taller than me. I have to look up. It's a bit uncomfortable when you're this close.

* * *

"I don't like you," I say. It's a lie. I have been thinking about this for solid three minutes while we were finishing our dinner. It isn't much, but I just know that if I take more time, sleep on it, as they say, it will be too late. John will pretend like this night never happened and I don't want that. I want this night to be a beginning, so I continue, I explain myself.

"To be precise, I don't _just _like you. I adore every single bit of you. I'm crazy about you." Once I have started, I can't stop. Words tumble out. There's one other thing that needs saying. I take a deep breath. "I love you."

John looks a bit startled by the declaration, but he must have known it was coming. I don't give him time to recover. Instead, I do exactly what I wanted to do for quite some time now. Even if I have realised it just today.

I push my fingers in the soft hair on the back of his neck, my thumbs caress his jaw. I kiss him. Just our lips touching. It's over in a moment. Oh, God, I shouldn't have done that.

* * *

In the moments after you move away and your hands let go, I can still feel the phantom heath of your lips against mine, of the thin paths leading from my jaw to my hair. Then you're running away and I just can't let you do that. Not after this. You shouldn't go and hide away in your room, you're going to get ideas. I catch your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" I keep my voice soft. You stand there, facing away from me for several seconds. They seem much longer than they should. You turn just a bit.

"To my room." You actually turn then and glare at me. "If that's alright with you." If that's alright with me. Of course it's not alright with me. I ignore your remark and don't let you escape this. I can see you're trying. You won't look at me.

"What was that?"

"Don't play dumb, John." I'm not playing dumb, I'm helping you. "You know exactly what that was." You shift from foot to foot and I tighten my grip on your wrist. Not getting away.

"That I do." It's nice to have it acknowledged though. "Come here."

* * *

John pulls me in for a hug, wraps his hands around my waist and holds on. What do I do, what do I do? He keeps holding. He doesn't want to let go. It's a bit tight, but I won't complain. This is what I wanted, right? For him to be my stability.

This is too much. It isn't enough. I bury my nose into the empty space between his shoulder and his neck. I breathe in the scent of his cologne. It has worn off, just a trace now. It calms me. I don't feel the need to run away and hide. Well, maybe just a bit.

* * *

"It's fine. It's all fine." You tighten your arms around me. I think you have just realised that this is what you need. Hugs, a lot of them.

"Are you sure?" But _fine _isn't what you want to hear.

"Yes," I say. My lips are touching your earlobe. It's a bit cold. "By the way," I move away. You lift your head from my shoulder and look at me. "I love you."

My fingertips gently trail your sharp cheekbone. I pull you close with both hands, one on the small of your back, other on the back of your neck. Another kiss. This one lasts a second or two longer, but its nature doesn't change. It's still just a press of lips. It's just a beginning.


End file.
